Sunday

The morning light creeps in like a silent lion in the grass

One eye opens, then another

I know what day it is.

I can sense my longing

I can sense my trepidation

You see, I have begun to attend a service

Yes, me, the cynic, in a small sacred space

Next to a dentist's office.

Why have I come?

No easy answer here

Do they "get it right"?

Is their music powerful and excellent?

Does the pastor preach dynamite sermons?

Do they pour into the community?

Is there a sense of deep respect for tradition, participation, and The Other?

No to the first 3.

Yes on the fourth and fifth.

I am not judged.

Though I do feel the Lord's gaze

He may wonder where I've been

And how long since my last confession

But

I am welcomed to the Table

With all my shit behind me

I kneel, on a cushy pad

next to those who have given me peace

And I accept the gift of Christ

And I fear Him but I love Him

And I remember His death and life

And when I cross myself after I have sipped the wine

After the priest has leaned down and whispered

And I have smelled his sweet breath

And seen his furrowed brow

Under robes of white

I know that I have died again

I know that I will live

And that Christ has provided and sustained

So I may live

and believe

And I do